They scanned the room in panic until their eyes locked onto him.
They ran straight over.
“Are you… Ethan?” one gasped.
He jumped to his feet. “Yes. What happened? Are you hurt? Where’s your mom?”
The other twin clutched his arm desperately. “She was supposed to meet you… but men broke into our house. They hit her.”
“She told us to run,” the first cried. “To find you. We don’t know if she’s still breathing.”
The restaurant went silent.
Ethan knelt. “Slow down. What’s your mom’s name?”
“Melissa Grant,” the girl whispered.
The name hit him hard. His blind date. The woman Rachel had described as strong, kind, devoted. The woman who should have been sitting across from him.
“Where do you live?” he asked, already dialing 911.
“Three blocks—Oakridge Avenue, white gate,” one pointed.
“I’m coming with you.”
They ran.
The house looked wrecked. The front door hung crooked. Ethan told the girls to stay outside and went in.
Furniture overturned. Glass everywhere. A shattered family photo.
Melissa lay near the couch, blood in her hair, barely recognizable.
Ethan checked her pulse.
Weak. But there.
“She’s alive,” he shouted into the phone. “Unconscious. Severe trauma.”
In the doorway, the twins clung together.